At Home in Pleasant Valley (7 page)

“We have to talk.” He moved next to her, stroking Betty's silky neck.

“Not here.” She sent an apprehensive glance toward the stable door. “Someone could come in. Someone might have seen you.”

“No one saw me.” Johnny's hand stilled on the horse's neck. “I was careful, just like I always was when we used to meet here. Remember?”

There it was—the plea to her memory. She remembered. It would be far better to say that she didn't, but it would be a lie. So better to say nothing.

Still, he knew. They'd used her habit of visiting her horse every night to steal some quiet time alone together. She'd rush in, a carrot or sugar cube for the mare in her hand, and find him waiting. His arm would encircle her waist, his lips brush her cheek.

They'd been innocent times, but she'd felt guilty, nonetheless, sitting on a straw bale, leaning against Johnny's shoulder, talking about the future. But it was a future they'd never had.

“You remember,” he whispered, and he was close enough that she'd feel the touch of his breath if he moved another few inches.

“It doesn't matter.”

She took a step back and was reminded of Daniel, stepping carefully away from her when his daughter called him. For a moment her mind clouded with confusion. Too much was happening, too soon.

“It doesn't matter,” she said again, more firmly. “I've done everything I can for you, Johnny. I cannot change your parents' minds for them.”

“I can't believe they refuse to see me.” He turned away with a quick, restless movement. “I'm their only son. How can they treat me this way?”

She forced her heart to harden against him. “You are the one who left.”

“Now I've come back. Even the prodigal son had a warmer welcome than this.”

“The prodigal son admitted his wrong and was willing even to be a servant,” she reminded him.

“Is that what you expect of me?” He threw his anger at her.

“I don't expect anything,” she said. “But I can see what's in front of my face.”

“And what is that?” The sudden sarcasm that hardened his voice made it easier to feel that this was not the Johnny she knew.

Gut. That would make it easier to say no to whatever it was that had brought him here tonight.

“You want to keep your English life and have the advantages of being Amish, too. You can't have it both ways. You should know that by now.”

Some emotion crossed his face—regret, she thought.

“Maybe so.” He shook his head. “But that's not what's important right now.”

Her stomach clenched. They were getting to it, then. To whatever it was he wanted from her.

“What is important, if not your family's grief?” Could he dismiss that so easily?

“I accept that I can't change them, and I'm sorry. But that doesn't alter the reason why I came back to Pleasant Valley to begin with.”

“Your work at the clinic.” Somehow she'd known they'd get around to it eventually.

“I need cooperation from the families of affected children. They're not going to open their doors to me.” He paused, his gaze intent. “But they might to you.”

The breath went out of her. She took a step back. “No. I can't.”

“Of course you could.” He dismissed that with an impatient gesture. “It's not difficult—it's just a matter of interviewing the parents and writing down their answers.”

She fought to control her irritation. Did he really think that she'd refused because she thought herself incapable of such a simple task?

“That's not the point. I'm too busy with my teaching and with the duties I have at home as well. I can't take on another job.”

“This wouldn't be a real job. Just volunteer work. You could probably get it done in a few hours a day, plus the travel time, of course.”

“I don't have a few extra hours in my days.”

“You could wait until after school is out to start,” he countered. “As long as I know that the data will be coming in, I can get to work.”

He was as impatient as always, eager to bend everyone else to suit his needs, and that enthusiasm of his had always had a way of sweeping her along with it. Not this time.

“I can't,” she said firmly. “There would be too many problems with my family and the church if I were to do such a thing.”

Especially with Johnny involved. There would probably be fewer objections to the clinic than to her seeing so much of him.

He brushed that away with a sweep of his hands. “You're an adult. You can make up your own mind what to do.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Have you been away so long that you've forgotten what it means to be Amish? It is not just a matter of what I might want to do. You can't judge me by English standards.”

“Fair enough.” He had the grace to look a bit abashed at the reminder. “I won't judge you, Leah. If you feel you need to consult the bishop about it, that's fine.”

“No, it's not fine. I'm not going to work with you on this, Johnny.”

He'd have to make of that what he would. She wasn't going to put herself in a situation where every day might be spent reliving the past.

He took a quick step toward her, coming into the circle of light from the lantern. His face was set, his gaze steady.

“This isn't about you and me. This is about those children. You can dismiss me if you want. But can you dismiss them so easily?”

Her heart twisted, thinking of the children she knew who suffered from the genetic diseases. Not as many here, probably, as back in Lancaster County, but even one was too many.

There were two of the Miller children, over near the crossroads, spending hours of the day and night under the special blue lamps that helped the children affected with Crigler-Najjar syndrome. Without a liver transplant, they'd never be well.

And there were the babies gone in an instant, it seemed, from a form of sudden infant death syndrome, turning a family's happiest time into one of grief.

Others, some in their own church family, suffered from diseases that seemed to have no known remedy.

No, she couldn't dismiss the children. The fact that her own siblings and their young ones had escaped the inherited diseases didn't mean her heart didn't break each time she heard of a child's suffering.

She looked at Johnny. He must still know her too well, since he'd stood quietly, letting her think. Knowing where her thoughts had gone.

“How could anything I do help those children? I'm not a scientist.”

“No, but gathering the information is nearly as important as applying the science.” He took a quick step toward her, his face lighting with enthusiasm. “We have the tools to start unlocking the secrets of some of those diseases. But without the cooperation of the families, even those who seem free of the illnesses, we can't use the tools we have.” He held out his hand to her. “Isn't that something you'd want to do, if you could?”

She was so tempted simply to agree—to be swayed by his enthusiasm and by the ache in her heart for any hurting child. But she needed to think this through, away from John's passion about it.

“I'll think about it.” She lifted the lantern so that she could see his face more clearly, see him start to speak. “No, don't try to persuade me. Just let me think it over and come to a decision. Surely you can do that.”

He nodded, reluctance in the movement. “All right. But at least come to the clinic and see for yourself the work we're doing on genetic diseases. There's no reason not to do that, is there?”

“I'll think about it,” she said again.

His face fell, but he nodded, maybe seeing that further argument would push her away. “I guess that's the best you can do. I'll go now. Thank you for listening, at least.”

He walked to the door, his stride quick and impatient. Slipping out, he turned away from the house so that the open door would shield him from the gaze of anyone looking out the windows.

He probably thought she was a coward for refusing to jump at the chance he offered her. She stroked Betty's neck, taking comfort in the solid warmth of the animal. But then, he already knew she was a coward, didn't he?

L
eah
sat at the small pine table in her bedroom, going over lesson plans. The gas lamp cast a yellow glow on the page, and she leaned back in the chair and rubbed her eyes. She'd fallen behind on schoolwork this week, and she didn't like to do that, especially with the end of the year barreling at her like a runaway wagon.

But it couldn't be helped. Mamm and Daadi were moving to the daadi haus tomorrow. Levi and Barbara were moving into the farmhouse at the same time. Her days had disappeared into a haze of trying to organize, pack, keep her mother from doing too much, and keep her sister from exploding.

She certainly hadn't had time to give more than a passing thought to Johnny's proposal. She could imagine how annoyed he'd be to know that, but he didn't have family to consider in his plans. That was sadder than he realized, to her way of thinking.

She hadn't exchanged more than a few words with Daniel, either. Her heart still ached for those children. Whatever had happened to send them away from the world they knew, it must have been traumatic.

When she tried to imagine it, she ran up against a blank wall of ignorance. If Daniel could only bring himself to confide in her about it—

She didn't think that was likely. He clearly wasn't ready to talk about his family's trials.

As for the surge of attraction that had flared so surprisingly between them—well, neither of them would want to discuss that.

She pulled the sheaf of lesson plans toward her again, but as she did so, she heard her mother calling her name up the stairs. She went quickly toward the hall. She'd expected Mamm to head straight to
bed. Surely she hadn't thought of something else she wanted to do tonight.

Her mother grasped the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, sagging as if she needed its support. “Barbara is here. Will you come down and help her with these boxes?”

Leah nodded, starting down the steps. Barbara certainly had an abundance of energy. She hadn't thought to see her again before tomorrow morning, when the official moving would begin, and plenty of church members would be here then to help.

Barbara was in the kitchen, trying to maneuver an overfilled box onto the table.

“Let me take that.” Leah slid the carton out of Barbara's grip. “We'll want the table clear in the morning to feed people.”

“Ja, that's right.” Barbara relinquished her hold. “It's kitchen things, though, so I thought best to put it in here.”

“I'll stow it in the pantry. That's already cleaned out.” She suited the action to the words, sliding the box out of sight into the pantry. “You look tired, Barbara. I'm sure that could have waited until tomorrow. Do you want coffee? Tea?”

Barbara slumped into a chair and fanned herself with her bonnet. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with barely suppressed excitement. Surely she didn't anticipate the move that eagerly.

“Water would be gut,” she said. “But I must tell you something.”

Mamm, who had been hovering near the door, seemed to resign herself to the fact that this wasn't going to be a short visit. She took the seat across from Barbara, leaning back heavily in the chair.

Leah filled a glass with water, her movements stiff. Couldn't Barbara see that Mamm needed to go to bed?

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” she suggested. “I'm sure we're all ready for a good night's sleep.”

“No, no, I must tell you, because he'll no doubt be here to help.” She gulped down half the glass. “It's about your neighbor. Daniel Glick.”

Leah froze. Barbara definitely had a nose for news. If something happened in the valley, she wanted to know it first. Was Daniel's secret out already?

“What about Daniel?” She kept her voice noncommittal. This might be nothing at all.

Barbara leaned forward, her eyes bright. “Miriam Miller, my neighbor, she had a letter today from her cousin back in Lancaster County. It seems that she knew all about Daniel and his family. They belonged to the same church district.”

“I suppose she would know him, then.” Mamm's voice was stern. “And you know that I don't hold with gossip, Barbara.”

Looking a bit abashed, Barbara sat back in her chair. “Not gossip. Truth. That's all. Just the truth about him. And I thought you ought to know, being close neighbors and Leah so interested in the children, and all. I thought to myself, ‘Leah can help those children better if she knows all about it.'”

“All about what?” Best just to get it out. Then it could be dealt with.

“His wife left him.” Her voice lowered, as if she didn't want anyone else to hear. “A Muller, she was, Ruth Muller before they wed. Anyway, Miriam's cousin says that it was a grief to all of them when Ruth just up and went one day, fence-jumping to the English. And taking the kinder with her.”

“No.” Mamm winced, as if the very thought of it caused her pain.

“She did that. Took them away, and Daniel was nearly mad with the grief of it. Two years they were gone, with him not knowing what had become of them all that time.”

“What a terrible thing,” Mamm murmured. “That poor man. Those poor children.”

“So young to have such a thing happen to them.” Barbara's eyes filled with tears. She might enjoy being the first to know, but she had a soft heart and was easily moved by a child or an animal that was hurting.

“How did he get them back?” Mamm clasped her hands in her lap, as if sending up a swift prayer for Daniel's children.

“His wife died. Killed in a car crash, she was, and drinking besides. She'd left the children all alone to fend for themselves while she went out.” Barbara shook her head. “A gut thing, as it turned out, that they were not in the car with her.”

“God watched over them,” Leah murmured, her throat choking with tears.

Small wonder that Daniel didn't want to talk about what had happened. To go for two years not knowing where his children were—it was unthinkable.

“You can see why I thought you should be told right away.” Barbara thrust herself back from the table. “He'll be here tomorrow to help, I shouldn't wonder, and folks maybe will be already talking about it. Maybe our Leah should just drop a word in his ear, let him know that folks have heard.”

“I'm not sure I should—” But if she didn't tell him, who would?

“You're the teacher.” Barbara patted her hand. “You'll know how to say it to him, so he won't be upset.”

“It's for the best,” her mother added. “The news will get around, everyone will talk about it for a day or two, and then it will be forgotten and things will get back to normal for them.”

She was looking at Leah for agreement, and Leah nodded. But she wasn't so sure her mother was right.

Or at least, that Daniel would think so.

•   •   •

“Hold
on, Daniel.”

Mahlon, Leah's brother, hoisted one end of the heavy wooden cabinet they were lugging from Levi's wagon to the house. Cradling the weight against his chest, Mahlon craned his neck to see into the kitchen, and then grinned and jerked his head to the side.

“We'd best wait a bit. Barbara's changing her mind about where she wants it.”

They set the load down on the grass, and Mahlon leaned against it, pushing his straw hat back on his head. “Be glad when this movin' is done, so the women will stop buzzing around like bees.”

“It's a lot of changes.” Daniel propped his elbow on the cabinet. Around the corner of the farmhouse, another group of the brethren were carting furniture into the grossdaadi haus. “Two families moving in one day is enough to cause upsets.”

Mahlon shrugged. “I don't see what all the fuss is about, but Mamm wants everything just so in the new place, and Barbara—” He raised his eyebrows expressively.

Daniel grinned. He liked young Mahlon, with his easygoing manner and his open, pleasant face. And it was a fine thing to feel accepted so readily by him.

Not that he wouldn't have come in any event to help his neighbors with their move. But it was the first work frolic he'd been involved in since he'd come to Pleasant Valley, and that made it a positive step toward belonging.

Some women of the church were setting up lunch tables under the trees, while others helped to unpack boxes and put things away in both houses. Men carted boxes and furniture from here to there. The children darted in and out among them, some of the older ones helping, others just getting in the way.

Matthew had been entrusted with the job of taking water to the workers, and he seemed to be taking the job seriously. Even now he came toward them, carrying a full bucket, stopping to offer Mahlon a drink first.

Such a simple thing, but it made Daniel's heart swell with pleasure. That was what he'd longed for during those years apart—just the simple tasks of Amish life, shared with his children.

Elizabeth also had a job to do. She and her friend Becky had been put in charge of some of the younger children, whom they led in a game a safe distance away from all the activity.

“A drink, Daad?” Matthew held out the dipper.

He wasn't thirsty, but he took it anyway just for the pleasure of sharing the moment with his son. “Do a gut job, now.”

“I will.” Matthew hurried off around the house, his face intent with responsibility.

“A fine boy, that,” Mahlon said. “Not a schnickelfritz like Levi's boy.”

“He gets into mischief already,” he said, remembering the motorcycle. “I understand you might be setting up a family for yourself sometime soon,” he said.

Mahlon flushed. “Ja, we will that.” He glanced toward the kitchen,
where the debate apparently still went on. “Just as well, I think, with Mamm and Daadi moving into the daadi haus. Barbara will want this place for her family, especially with another babe on the way.”

“Your sisters will still be here though,” Daniel pointed out.

Mahlon shrugged. “Anna's old enough to start thinking about a wedding instead of running around all the time. And Leah—well, Leah's a gut aunt.”

It seemed the unspoken thought was that Barbara would be foolish to think of causing problems for Leah in the house. Still, the change couldn't make for an easy situation for Leah.

His gaze sought her out, and he realized that he'd known all along where she was, spreading a cloth over the picnic tables, even though he hadn't been consciously thinking about her.

Her situation was not easy in a lot of ways. She didn't fit in with the other unmarried girls, all younger than she, who were giggling and flirting as they went about their chores. And the young married women, who were more her age, were occupied with babies and growing families.

“She would be a gut mother herself, as well as an aunt.”

The fact that he'd said the words aloud startled him. He didn't want people getting the wrong idea about him and Leah.

Mahlon looked startled as well. “Leah? She always says she's past getting married. Although I suppose—”

He stopped, apparently thinking that Daniel could be a prospective suitor. Mahlon flushed to the tips of his ears. “She's a fine person. I didn't mean—”

He stopped again, maybe because everything he tried to say seemed to lead in the wrong direction. He bent and grabbed the bottom of the cabinet.

“Let's get this inside. Maybe then Barbara will make up her mind. I'm ready for middaagesse.”

It looked as if the servers were about ready for lunch, too. Women were carrying baskets to the tables, where Leah supervised setting them out.

He picked up his end of the oak cabinet. “We'd best do some carrying to earn our lunch.”

Would he talk with Leah then? They hadn't spoken all week, but he felt as if that conversation in the garden had happened minutes ago.

They hoisted the cabinet into the kitchen. Faced with its size, Barbara seemed to realize there was only one proper place for it, and it was deposited there without further trouble.

“That will do it.” She glanced at him. “It's kind of you to help, Daniel.”

He gave the nod that was the only right response. Barbara seemed to look at him with more interest than he'd expected. True, he was new in the district, but this wasn't the first time they'd met. He'd expect her to have gotten over her curiosity by now.

Mahlon nudged him. “Let's get some food before the others hog it all. Komm.”

He'd guess that Mahlon was still filling out his long frame, but he followed him outside to the picnic tables. Leah, seeing him coming, stepped a little away from the table to meet him.

“Your brother is ready to eat,” he said.

“My brother is always ready to eat.” She waved her hand at Mahlon as if she shooed away a fly. “Go on, fill your plate already.”

Mahlon grinned and took a ladleful of potato salad that filled half his plate.

“He's still a growing boy,” Daniel suggested. “I seem to remember feeling like that.”

Leah didn't smile in return. Instead she looked at him with a kind of sweet gravity. “I must tell you something, Daniel.”

For a moment he could only stare at her. Then certainty pooled inside him at her expression.

“Someone has found out about what happened to us.”

She nodded. “I'm sorry. One of Barbara's neighbors had a letter from a cousin in Lancaster County.”

He looked for his children—Matthew and Elizabeth going about their chores, Jonah playing happily with some of the younger ones. They were fine for the moment.

“I'd hoped for a little more time.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But it won't matter, you'll see. The brethren will care about you and yours all the more. It will be fine.”

“I hope so.” His throat tightened. He didn't mind for himself. Folks could talk about him all they wanted.